In Darcy's Arms

by Gwendolyn Dash

  “—didn’t you, Miss Elizabeth?” Captain Atwood asked.

  “Indeed,” she replied. Crocodile fricassee.

  The captain’s visit was not long, and after he left, the women found themselves set upon by the Gardiner children. Jane was engaging the young ones in games when Mrs. Gardiner took Elizabeth aside and said, “My dear Lizzy, do you think your sister’s spirits are at all improving here? I fear this trip has not had the outcome we expected. I had hoped for her heart to mend during her time in London, but it seems to me rather that it has hardened.”

  Elizabeth nodded somberly. “I have never in my life heard her speak as she has of late. Truly, I am astonished. It is not like Jane to even think ill of another person, let alone to say it to her sister.” And to Mr. Darcy. “I am the one with the sharp tongue in our family.”

  “And it suits you very well,” said her aunt. “For with you, I know it is a nip and not a bite. But with Jane, I fear she does not have the practice of laughing at herself enough. The sweetness of her character, that once believed the best in everyone, is not built to allow such acerbity of wit without descending into personal bitterness.”

  “Perhaps it never was meant to carry on thusly,” Elizabeth replied. “We have had our example from one who is not free of bitterness, after all.” Her father’s wit was to him a comfort, to soothe the sting of his own disappointments. She had not known him in a time when he believed the good of everybody. When he might have thought his marriage to their mother would be naught but a blessing.

  Mrs. Gardiner fell silent for a moment. “I had hoped a change of scene was all she required, but I fear the example we have set here has not served her well.”

  Elizabeth knew at once what she meant. They had come away to London to mend their broken hearts, but only Elizabeth had acquired a new suitor. “If you think the attentions of Captain Atwood toward me hurt Jane’s spirits, I shall send him away at once.”

  “Why, Lizzy, I mean nothing of the sort! We need do nothing so drastic, and I’m sure Jane would not want it so. She is made nearly as happy by Captain Atwood’s partiality to you as you are.”

  Elizabeth cast a glance at Jane, whose smile faded every time she thought no one else in the room watched. Yes. So very happy were they both! She’d never known two such jolly girls! Surely Mrs. Gardiner could see it as well?

  “I do confess I am amused by the thought that I have brought you all the way to London to fall in love with an officer. Though at least the ones you have found here have the means to marry, unlike those gentlemen of the militia in Meryton.”

  Elizabeth nearly groaned. “You and Lady Atwood would have me married to this man within the month.” Mr. Darcy, too, had made such a comment. “Have we learned nothing from the example of poor Jane? Let us not suppose a marriage where only a mild interest lies.” Let her not again be disappointed by the intentions of a gentleman of Derbyshire!

  Mrs. Gardiner sobered. “You are quite right, my dear. It is the fate of a happily married woman to wish the same felicity on everyone around her. And it is doubly the fate of a loving aunt to see what fine wives her two nieces might make. I am forever shocked that there is not a line of men waiting out the door.” After a moment, she brightened. “Although today, there was, was there not? Had not known you were so well acquainted with a Darcy of Pemberley.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth replied mildly. “We were much thrown together at Netherfield, but I had thought our connection with him severed, as it was with Mr. Bingley. It was very strange for him to call after we saw him at the dance.”

  “It was proper,” her aunt corrected. “That family is nothing if not proper. I remember the way it was at Lambton. Rich as sultans, but everyone in the village thought they hung the moon. Old Mr. Darcy was reckoned the kindest man who ever lived.”

  Elizabeth could scarcely contain her surprise, but then she remembered what Mr. Wickham had once told her, of his godfather’s generous nature. “I believe I, too, have heard the old Mr. Darcy was an excellent man.”

  “And I seem to recall something of his air that is evident in his son.”

  “Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, not altogether convincingly, for she had not forgotten all the other things Mr. Wickham had reported about Mr. Darcy.

  “He is handsome, is he not? And so tall!”

  “Very tall,” Elizabeth said. The better to carry her through the garden. The better to hold her in his arms.

  Mrs. Gardiner was looking at Jane. “Yes. Very odd that he should come here. Or maybe not so very odd.”

  Elizabeth felt a lump rise in her throat, and a quick sting in her heart at the very notion he might have come to wait upon Jane. He would not break her heart, too. “Aunt, we have just resolved we should not matchmake. And I do not think it credits anyone to suspect a man for making a morning call. They will quit the custom altogether!”

  “Yes, of course. Though it would not hurt to be better acquainted with him, in any capacity. I have certainly never seen his equal in this parlor.”

  “Have you not? Lady Atwood is married to a baronet.”

  “The baronet, my dear, has never come. And for all her kindnesses to you, when Lady Atwood was last in this house she was plain Miss Porter,” her aunt replied.

  “You hid your astonishment about Mr. Darcy’s call most nobly.”

  “As did you. Had I not known better, Elizabeth, I would have thought you displeased to see him.”

  Elizabeth looked away.

  “His house is something, to be sure. The finest in Derbyshire and thus, in my reckoning, in all of England. The grounds are exquisite, the edifice grand as a palace.” Mrs. Gardiner chuckled. “Now I sound as if I’m ready to tell a fairy story in the nursery. But you must remember what it was like for me as a girl, to hear stories of Pemberley, to see glimpses of it from the road, and this morning to have the man himself in my house. How strange, the twists and turns of life, don’t you agree, Lizzy?”

  “Yes,” said Elizabeth. “Very strange.”

  Chapter 21

  The following day, Mrs. Gardiner went out and took Jane along with her, but Elizabeth chose to remain behind. She did not know if she expected another visit from Captain Atwood. She did not know even if she wanted one.

  To be sure, his attentions to her were marked, and a few months ago, she would have believed such behavior signified a serious intent. But she had learned much since last fall. She had learned that a man could have a whole village convinced of his affections, but vanish nonetheless. She had learned that there could exist between two people an admitted, secret intimacy that came to nothing in the light of day.

  Too, she was not sure if she had that intimacy with Captain Atwood. For all their conversations and carriage rides, she had never felt—well, she didn’t know what it was she felt with Mr. Darcy. Something discomfiting and distracting. He infuriated her with most of his words and thrilled her with the rest. He was maddening, and the effects of his presence lingered long after he was gone.

  Once she had thought these the symptoms of love, but this love could not be one that sustained. It was not a stout and sturdy love such as the type she saw every day between her aunt and uncle. Those two people were joined in bonds of happiness and friendship and mutual esteem. They were equal partners in all parts of their lives. She could have that felicity with Captain Atwood. His amiability and sense were all most pleasing. He had charm to spare. He loved to dance and to travel. If one had sought to craft a man for her that she should expect to most desire, it would be one like him.

  So why was it, when he did at last call, their conversation felt so wan? It was as if, having seen Mr. Darcy again, nothing else would suit her. She felt dull and uninspired, and she knew Captain Atwood was not ignorant of her mood, as he left quickly, even before the customary quarter hour had passed.

  Once he was gone, she sat and stewed, unequal even to her sewing or a book from her uncle’s well-stocked library. She was staring into the embers of the fire when the servant
opened the door again.

  “Mr. Darcy, miss.” She curtsied and moved aside, as the gentleman entered the parlor.

  He stopped quite suddenly, seeing her to be alone.

  She curtsied. He bowed.

  “My aunt and Jane are out at the shops,” she said, for lack of anything better.

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy.”

  “You might as well sit,” she said—fairly snapped. “For it seems you are to be here in body or in spirit.”

  His eyes widened at the curious pronouncement, but sit he did. But he was silent for long enough that Elizabeth squirmed in her seat, overcome with regret for letting her tongue run away with her thoughts.

  “Miss Bennet,” he said at last. “I feel it incumbent upon me to respond to the accusation you laid at my door on the night of the ball.”

  “I assure you, sir, I have no—”

  “I know you are not a fortune hunter, Miss Bennet.”

  She was struck dumb.

  “If you had wanted to, you might have extracted a promise from me, given my behavior at the Netherfield ball. I would have thought it my duty as a gentleman to stand by my actions.”

  Elizabeth regarded him. “I am unsure what you wish to accomplish in saying this to me. Is it an apology, an accusation, or a compliment?”

  “I believe it is, above all, a confession.”

  Why, oh why, did that affect her so? She hated that it did, and, very quickly, the rush of emotion which had followed upon his words turned to irritation. He had no right to say such things to her. They would only serve to further entangle her confused heart. “Yes. It does no good to apply credit to a character where it does not signify. You could have ruined me the night you found me wandering the Netherfield hedge maze. How gentlemanly to have restrained yourself.”

  He started at the weapon in her words. “I could not do otherwise, on my honor.”

  She straightened and lifted her chin. “Nor could I. Why is it, do you suppose, Mr. Darcy, that you believe me lacking not only your ‘honor’, which most might call basic decency, but also anything resembling sense? Why should I wish to trap a man into marriage? Why would any woman of sense want to shackle herself to a person who does not love her?”

  Mr. Darcy stared at her for a long moment. “Since I was twenty years old, I have had eligible young ladies thrown at my head. You will forgive me if it colors my suspicions of what a girl like yourself might want.”

  “And since I was twenty years old, I have had a particular gentleman kiss me in the darkness, follow me through the rooms at a private ball, and then come to my house while I sat there alone. You will forgive me if it colors mine.”

  At once, he rose. “I would not wish to make you uncomfortable—”

  Elizabeth, too, shot to her feet, abandoning all pretense at propriety. If he would come here, she would have him answer for his actions. “All you have done is make me uncomfortable, since the moment we first met. What do you want from me, Mr. Darcy, if not to alternate insults and insinuations? You exult in constantly reminding me of the differences in our situation in life, and then accuse me of seeking something from you? You have sought me out. Not once, but many times. Tell me once and for all what it is that you want, or leave me alone.”

  “I want you!” he roared.

  She had asked him to say it, but still, when he did, she was stunned into silence.

  He took this as reason enough to go on. “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. Neither time nor distance have succeeded in repressing my feelings, my regard. I love you, Miss Bennet.”

  I love you. For months she had waited for those words, from those lips. For months she had thought they would never come. She took a half-step forward. Another one, and she would be in his arms once more.

  “You know the obstacles which have long prevented me from creating a serious design on you. I have no illusions that this match will be welcome to my family, or thought of as anything other than reprehensible by any of my associates. But it cannot be helped. I cannot do otherwise but beg you to relieve my suffering, and consent to be my wife.”

  His words fell on her like a bucket of cold water. What sort of man could propose to her in such a way? But such it had ever been with Mr. Darcy. His passionate declaration of feelings followed almost immediately by his insults.

  “These obstacles you mention,” she scoffed. “I fear they are different in each of our estimation.”

  “No doubt, due to the relative nature of our situation and connections.”

  “Precisely!” she cried. “Yours are filled with words such as dowry and fortune, and mine with ones such as temperament and felicity.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You seem to believe I could make you happy, Mr. Darcy, despite the disapprobation of everyone else you claim to hold dear. I am not so certain. I am even less assured that you could make me happy. I know too well the long period of regret that follows a marriage built on less than solid foundations. This… fascination may last a few months, even a year. But marriage is for decades. We cannot be half an hour within each other’s company before we are at each other’s throats.”

  When she looked into his eyes, she felt as if she were falling, as if they both were, from a vast and perilous height.

  “You—you refuse me?” he asked, in a quiet, breathy voice that nearly broke her heart.

  She swallowed, faltering for a moment. Was this not what she wanted? Was it not what she had waited for all these months? If she told him yes now, he would kiss her again. He would kiss her, and all her doubts would vanish like a puff of smoke.

  But then the memory rose up in her of a thousand petty slights, of the contempt her father showed her mother. She was beneath him, always, and the attraction—the fascination he now called love—would melt away, and leave only regret behind. Better to regret only now. Better to hurt only once.

  “I feel I must.”

  If he could not love her with his whole heart now, when it should be at its simplest, at its sweetest, there could be no true bond between them. He was correct about one thing: they were too different, both in situation and character. They would not suit.

  But even as she said it, it was like a light extinguished between them, plunging them both into darkness. And the fall went on. Elizabeth wondered if it would ever stop.

  His mouth compressed into a line; his jaw seemed to work, but he said nothing for a long moment. “Perhaps you are right. A fool’s errand, this. A fool to have even considered it. You have made your feelings plain, madam—”

  That was the one thing she had not done.

  “—and now I have only to be ashamed for what my own have been. Good day to you. Please accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

  He dipped his head and departed, leaving Elizabeth still as a statue in the parlor, with the echo of his I love you still ringing in her ears.

  Chapter 22

  Elizabeth could do naught but take to her bed. She told the servant she had a headache, and refused tea and soup, insisting all she wanted was quiet. The first time Jane came to comfort her, she sent her away, but by the time night fell, she believed herself enough in control of her emotions that she actually wanted to confess everything to her sister.

  For too long she had held the secret of everything that had passed between Mr. Darcy and herself. First, she had not wanted to share the information of what had transpired at the ball until she understood more what it had meant to both of them. And then, when Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy had left the neighborhood, she had not wanted to burden her sister, already heartbroken, with more reason to mourn. That reason had strengthened all the more since they’d arrived in London. After all, how ungrateful a girl would Elizabeth seem to complain about Mr. Darcy’s absence, when she was in the midst of receiving so much attention from Captain Atwood?

  But a proposal! One bestowed unwillingly, it seemed, but a proposal nonetheless. This could not be concealed fr
om someone she loved so dearly. It should not. Jane would help her make sense of it all. She knew she had done right—knew it deep in the marrow of her bones.

  And yet, and yet… she wished she’d been given just one more chance to touch him, a moment stolen, with which to remember the thing that might have been, though they each knew well why it should never come to pass.

  She recognized her sister’s soft knock, sat up in bed, and bid her enter.

  “Oh, Jane!” she cried, when she saw the shadowed form, clutching a single candle. “I am so glad to see you.”

  But she stopped as Jane came closer, and she saw her stricken face.

  “Lizzy, are you well? I should not like to bother you, only…oh, Lizzy, what am I to do?”

  “What is it, dearest?” Elizabeth cried. Taking her sister’s hand, she drew her toward her side upon the bed. “Is it news from Longbourn? Is everyone quite all right?”

  Jane placed the candle on the bedside table. “Yes, as far as I know. I have had a letter, but not from home.” She reached into her sleeve and withdrew an envelope. “It is from Mr. Bingley. It came tonight. As soon as I saw what it was, I put it away.”

  “You have not read it?”

  “It was not right for him to send me such a thing. We are lucky to be in London, and not at home, where he might have caused a scandal.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in astonishment. “But you are in possession of it now. Why should you not read it? He will never know that you didn’t burn it upon arrival.”

  “I would know,” she replied, her voice quite overcome with emotion. “Oh, Lizzy, you know it would not be right.”

  “There are many things that are not right, Jane. I believe that the reading of this letter is low upon the list.”